Gallifrey Crumbles
by Mote21
Summary: The Master is trapped on Gallifrey and wanted for murder. This story is for entertainment purposes only. All characters belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.
1. Chapter 1

A tense silence hung over the courtroom. There were just thirteen people present. No one else could be allowed to know what was happening here. Some of these select few couldn't quite believe what had happened. As bad as things had gotten, they could never have believed they would get _this_ bad.

On a high chair overlooking the oval shaped room sat High Inquisitor Karvik. He was a small, slight man with a small puckered mouth and a faint stump of a nose. His hooded eyes fixed on some invisible point on the far wall. Amid the terror and uncertainty that gripped the audience, he seemed the one constant. It was said he hadn't even flinched when told the news.

After a few tense minutes, he finally spoke in a calm, steady voice, 'Bring in the accused.'

A blue cloud of light silently exploded to his left. When it evaporated a man was seated in the holding seat. It was a deceptively simple piece of furniture. No locks or straps for the arms, legs or head. They had long since evolved more effective constraints.

The audience were surprised at the man's appearance. His sandy white hair and shabby clothes made him look like a vagrant. Of course he'd have to be to have committed such a heinous crime. But they still couldn't believe that someone so innocuous could have gotten past their security. This building was said to be the most secure in the planet, the galaxy even.

His only remarkable feature was his face. It was twisted in a contemptuous sneer. His eyes darted from one person to the next. There was such venom in them, it was like with each look he was thrusting a dagger.

Karvik took a breath to ask for his identity. 'Do you confirm yourself to be . . .' he paused a moment as he read the name. It wasn't even a name, it was a title, and a presumptuous one at that, ' . . . the Master?'

'I do,' the accused responded, his sneer widening as if the name gave him endless pleasure.

'You are accused of the murder of Lord President Rassilon.' The suspect spat at the name. Karvik's eyes flitted towards him then back to his parchment. 'How do you plead?'

'Guilty.'

His voice was low and soft, but the smugness was unmistakeable. One of the audience members suddenly leapt from his seat and pointed a finger at the accused.

'Traitor!' he spat. 'You blackhearted fiend. You are a stain upon Gallifrey!' The accused grinned at this, showing his gleaming teeth. Every insult seemed to delight him more and more.

'Councillor Shavek!' Karvik barked. 'Control yourself or you will be removed.'

Shavek froze as if caught in the glare of warp train's headlights. "Removed" could mean any number of things and one look at Karvik told you he was capable of all of them. Bowing his head and apologizing in a piping voice, he returned to his seat, the accused's laughter jabbing at his back.

'You have been found guilty of first degree murder, treason, conspiracy with alien powers, threatening the safety and wellbeing of the state and threatening the lives of members of the Interior Council,' Karvik said matter-of-factly.

'I may have sneezed on someone as well,' the accused drawled.

'By the power vested in me by the People's Inquisition, I sentence you to death by vaporisation.'

'Do I at least get a headstone?'

'You will henceforth be removed to the Temporal Accelerator.'

The accused's face dropped, his grin collapsing into an shocked gape. 'What . . ? You can't!'

'Execution will commence in an hour's time,' Karvik replied, the shadow of a smirk in his voice.

'The Accelerator was decommisioned!' the accused exclaimed.

'We've brought it back.'

The accused scowled like a child who had lost a game for the first time in his life. 'You can't do that to _me._'

'And why not?'

'Because I am the Master!' the accused snarled. 'You should praise me!'

'If it is praise you want, you shall have it,' Karvik said in his steady voice. 'We shall bequeath you the one honour one truly has in war – martyrdom.'

'I didn't do this to become a martyr!' the accused howled.

'Then why did you do it?'

The accused didn't reply. Instead he shot a glare at Karvik, twisted by a hatred the Inquisitor (who had never ventured beyond the citadel boundary) could never understand. Karvik met his glare with complete indifference.

The accused was again enveloped by the hazy blue light. It shimmered out of sight, taking him with it.


	2. Chapter 2

Councillor Palash traipsed through the dark corridors of the Presidential Sanctum. She was so lost in dark, turbulent thoughts that she kept zig-zagging without realising. Her legs were so unsteady that her shoes kept snagging on the ground, tripping her repeatedly. She fought to hold herself together. This meant far more than dignity. Anyone who behaved in anyway abnormally was looked on with suspicion. Suspicion could snap into accusation. People were being eliminated all the time now. The fear that gripped the citadel was pushing people to a state of near panic.

It was the legacy of their former president, who had had the audacity to take the name of Rassilon for himself. He had started out as an insult. To think such a vain dolt could match that brilliant man. But as the war dragged on, she'd started to question his very sanity, and soon to fear what it meant for all of them. She'd heard all sorts of rumours about his plans, some whispering that he intended to burn Gallifrey itself to ascend into eternity.

Upon hearing of his death, she'd masked her relief with sadness, which quickly mutated into fear. She'd asked who had been responsible. The only answer she'd gotten had been: 'A madman.' And if a madman could kill their president, who could possibly be next?

She reached her office without incident and sat at her desk for a few minutes, watching her hands until they stopped shaking. She wasn't getting any younger. She was 2,437 years old and on her tenth incarnation. A slim figure with black skin that had wrinkled with every decade of this vampiric war.

Her attention was caught by her hypercube, which had started to glow orange – someone was trying to make contact.

She laid a hand on it and a voice filled her mind: _Any developments?_

She pursed her mouth as she answered telepathically, transmitting her thoughts through her palm and into the cube, which broadcast it to the other person's, wherever they were._ They've found a guilty party._

_Some party stooge, no doubt._

_No. I think he really did it. He had the face of a psychopath. He enjoyed confessing._

_That doesn't prove anything. He may be a psychopath, but he could still just have been in the wrong place at the wrong time._

_Would you like me to file a complaint?_

Her correspondent would have laughed if they'd been speaking together. Perhaps he was. She could sense the bitter mirth in his thoughts. Another thought filtered through:

_Do you think he deserves it?_

Although they weren't speaking, Palash had sufficient psychic training to hold in her thoughts. It as the equivalent of a tight-lipped silence. She'd felt nothing but revulsion for the creature. His cockiness and superiority. In another life, he could have turned out just like the former President. She hadn't liked how he'd laughed at Shavek either. She'd never liked Shavek – a bower and scraper to the end. But that cold sneer had turned her stomach nonetheless.

But all the same, his arrogance had no bearing on his fate. As her correspondent had said, he could have been at the wrong place at the wrong time. Had he been an innocent civilian it would have made no difference. The Council had to look like they were still on top of things. They needed someone to blame.

_He deserves death_, she replied finally, _but not the death they've planned: the Temporal Accelerator._

She sensed no surprise from the other side. In times as dark as these, a draconian element like the Accelerator was perversely appropriate as a legal apparatus.

_When?_

_Five-tenths of an hour._

_We'll handle it._

_You're not seriously going to get him out of there?_

_Why not? If he's as mad as you make him out to be, he may be just the sort of fighter we need._

_You haven't seen him. He's no fighter. He's a child who doesn't realise the seriousness of the game he's playing._

_How's that any different from your boys in the War Council?_

She couldn't answer this, so she tried a different tack: _I thought you didn't believe he'd done it._

_I don't. But you should never let a good psychopath go to waste._

_I wouldn't bother. You and your fighters will die in the attempt. He is not worth the effort._

_You can say that while sitting in your cosy office. Here on the ground, things are a little bit different._

Palash felt a twinge of indignation at this. She could have told him that there was nothing cosy about her position, always checking to make sure she wasn't being eyed suspiciously, in constant fear of being escorted to the Inquisitor Chambers. But rather than let her anger leak through, she once again exercised her restraint.

_We'll need to know the layout of the building_, came the thought.

_I still object to this._

_You don't exactly have many options left, _Councillor. The sneer was unmistakeable. _I thought you wanted this regime to topple._

_I do but I feel this is the wrong way to go about it._

_Tell that to the next patsy they put in that chair._

Palash thought back. She remembered the terror she'd seen in other suspects' faces as they'd been cross-examined with the same lack of empathy. She remembered the cruelty of the Inquisitorial staff as they watched their victims squirm, utterly helpless. And then she saw herself in that chair.

She began to transmit a map of the Sanctum's lower reaches through her mind, as accurately as she could make it.

_I could be wrong with this diagram_, she thought.

_We'll manage._

_Do you really think you can get to him in time?_

_I do._ And then the cube became inert again. Palash removed her hand with a strange feeling of pity for her correspondent. He genuinely believed he could reach the accused in time and escape with his life. But then, she supposed, in times like these, people were ready to believe anything.


	3. Chapter 3

The last day of the Time War was one its survivors would never forget – the sky black with saucers, lasers slicing the planet surface like a knife through butter. Buildings had toppled, sculptures that had stood for millenia reduced to dust within seconds. Amid the roar of the lasers and the screams of the people, the magnified voice of the Dalek control had rent the air, as if mocking the citizens below:

'_Pla_-net _sur_-face must be _cleansed!_ Time Lord re-_sis_-tance must be crushed! All _in_-habitants to be ex-_ter_-minated!'

The ground had begun to shake and people everywhere closed their eyes to wait for the climax. But rather than an almighty crash, the noise had suddenly stopped, as if it had all been sucked away in a vaccuum. Every ship had disappeared from the sky as if they'd been just an illusion. The people were amazed but frightened in a new way as well. They'd grown almost used to their encroaching destruction. Daleks incinerating Gallifrey was to be expected of them. Daleks vanishing into thin air was like nothing they'd ever seen before. Many were convinced it was a ploy to lull them into a false sense of security.

When these fears had been assuaged (why trick the Time Lords when they'd already been beaten) more rational fears emerged. The sun had disappeared as well, and people started to ask how long they could survive without being able to grow food. The High Council had responded instantly and fired an artificial sun into the atmosphere. It was a flimsy substitute with only enough power to nurture the area around the citadel. Its light was purple rather than the more traditional orange. There was a time when the High Council could have brought light to the whole planet with minimal effort. But the war had exhausted them, brought all of Time Lord society to its knees.

It was through this ghost of a metropolis bathed in an unnatural purple light that three rebels made their way. They represented the whole of the Gallifreyan Liberation Corps. Their clothes were less grandiose than their name – a mix of boiler suits and outdated agri-labourer uniforms. But all that mattered was that their uncouthness made them less noticeable to the authorities.

Leading the way was Garl, a tall, muscular dark-skinned man. He had a shaven head and the beginnings of a beard curling around his chin. He made no sound as he darted from one tenement to the other, running his fingers tentatively over the cracked stone.

Behind him came Hasra, his second-in-command. She had shoulder-length black hair and a pointed nose with nostrils that flared easily. She carried a standard staser in one hand. Truth be told she felt somewhat awkward sneaking around while carrying a loaded weapon. She would have felt more secure going handsfree and tucking a knife or something into her belt. None of them were skilled fighters. Improvisation was the only strategy they knew.

Garl and Hasra crouched next to a dillapidated hoverdisc garage. The High Council was only a few streets away. Rather than assure them, being so close made them want to turn around and run the other way. That place had become as much a symbol of terror as the Dalek warships that could span whole horizons. They watched as a figure scurried from the shadows and their third member, Jilk, joined them.

Jilk was the youngest – a mere two hundred years old. Her black hair was tied up in a bun. A large satchel hung around her and she placed this next to her as she came to a halt. She did this carefully so as not to damage its contents – a clutch of homemade explosives she'd been brewing for the past number of days. She still wasn't completely sure how safe they were. Her caution while carrying them made her lag somewhat behind the other two.

The two women glanced at Garl for fresh orders. Garl's eyes were fixed on the street which stretched off to the right for about a hundred metres. Turn right at the top, go on for thirty or so metres, turn left and a southwest corner of the Sanctum would be in their sights.

He licked his chapped lips as he listened for any sound. There was the occasional clatter of hurried footsteps but nothing nearby. He raised his hand to give the signal . . .

_Clang-a-lang-a-lang-a-lang!_

Across the street! Something moving. Wastebin lid rolling. They all frose. Hasra's finger twitched on the trigger. Silence.

A small round shape dettached itself from the shadows. It was a vasker, a nocturnal scavenger. They recognised it from its thick, circular exoskeleton and three spiky legs. They'd become more numerous in recent months, with all the extra carrion lying around. They waited for it to leave in case panicking it caused a disturbance.

One breathless minute later, Garl raised his hand again and they moved off . . . .

The Master had hoped for his death to be a dignified one, or at least the walk towards his death. It was hard when you were encapsulated in a portable forcefield that shocked you whenever you touched it. The invisible bubble was so small he had to clasp his arms to his side and take tiny, shuffling steps. He would have burned with indignation if he wasn't so frightened.

He was being marched down a bare, sloping corridor that lay miles below ground level. The ominous hum of the Temporal Accelerator was growing steadily louder with every step. It was beginning to throb in his ears and he could almost swear the ground beneath his feet was throbbing too. But then again it could just as well have been his hearts.

It was joined by another throb, a soft rhythm that had been building in the past few days, ever since he had been woken in that dank prison. After centuries of rising and falling in intensity, it was finally reaching a climax unlike anything he had ever heard.

_Duh-duh-duh-dum! Duh-duh-duh-dum! Duh-duh-duh-dum! Duh-duh-duh-dum!_

He fought to think of something happy. Happy like the sight of the President's face, screwed up in agony as he fired bolt after bolt into his chest. Yes, that brought a small smile to his face. The pure exhilaration as he poured all his hatred into his palms and unleashed it on that pathetic despot.

Thinking of his powers made him wish he could use them now. One blast would scorch the two guards behind him into oblivion.

But of course the forcefield was too strong for that. Not only would it shield them, it would probably rebound the bolts onto the Master himself, cooking him within his own prison.

Now _there_ was a thought. It could be quick. Quicker than the alternative. And it would prove a defiant send-off. Refusing to submit to the Council's medieval methods. Facing death on his own terms. His palms began to grow warm . . .

But he couldn't do it. Even now, he was still holding out for some miracle. Maybe, at the very least, the Accelerator would tear him open and all his untapped power would be unleashed and destroy the very chamber itself.

But then he wouldn't be there to enjoy it. In which case, what would be the point?

The huge doors of the Accelerator Chamber loomed into view. They had been carved from pure onyx. Ceremonial torches clung to the overhead frame, casting an eerie green light over the corridor. It seemed to the Master that the doors were vibrating from the hum of the monstrous machine on the other side. Engraved across their surface was a succession of gruesome images of people being fed into the Accelerator.

Its function was simple; it sped up a Time Lord's ageing process, compressing thousands of years into a minute or so. Their skin crumpled like paper, their bones shattered like glass. The legs would give way and the victim would collapse helpless as their youth and vigour drained away.

The Accelerator was programmed so that the brain was the last to go. Rather than the reassuring haze of senility, the victim understood exactly what was happening to them. Their last moments blistered with shame as they felt themselves fade away to dust before the eyes of their exectioners.

_Duh-duh-duh-_dum! _Duh-duh-duh-_dum! _Duh-duh-duh-_dum! _Duh-duh-duh-_dum!

The doors creaked open and the real Accelerator replaced the engravings in the Master's eye. It was an enormous transparent capsule around which a small group of people were gathered. The Master recognised Karvik and bared his teeth as he was led past him. Karvik sniffed like he'd stepped in something unpleasant.

In his hands he clutched a roll of parchment – his death notice. The Master couldn't help but be somewhat offended at the sight of it. He had committed one of the greatest crimes in Time Lord history, and it was all regulated to one small page. How would _that_ look in a museum? Then he remembered the Time Lords were already doomed and so there wouldn't be a museum to put it in. He imagined all these people roasting alive and it made him smile again.

He entered the Accelerator and the humming outside was muffled as it sealed itself. He imagined that once it was activated, the sound would all pour into the chamber with him. It would doubtless be excrucitating.

He felt a small shimmer as the forcefield surrounding him vanished. Once again, he considered blasting through the walls of the infernal contraption and he dismissed the thought instantly. A foolish fantasy. There really was nothing he could do at this stage.

_Duh-duh-duh-DUM! Duh-duh-duh-DUM! Duh-duh-duh-DUM! Duh-duh-duh-DUM!_

He felt the trembling start again, only now he knew people were watching them. Their penetrating eyes made him wince and he clasped his hands to steady himself. He saw Karvik's mouth move as he proclaimed the execution in the laws of Gallifrey. He bit his lip to stop himself crying out in terror.

Why? Why had he let his feelings get the best of him? Why couldn't he have let that oh-so-pious Doctor take care of the President? He could have snuck out of the room and left them to finish each other off. It shouldn't be him standing here. It wasn't fair!

He realised he had shouted that last part, and he saw to his horror that Karvik had seen his fear and was smiling. His hand was raised, about to give the signal. The hand dropped. A buzzing filled his ears which grew into a mighty roar. The execution had begun.

_DUH-DUH-DUH-_DUM!_ DUH-DUH-DUH-_DUM!_ DUH-DUH-DUH-_DUM!_ DUH-DUH-DUH-_DUM!


	4. Chapter 4

The trio's footsteps clapped loudly as they scurried across the road. Every sound they made seemed to crash around their ears like a stormy wave. Their stomachs twisted as if at any second they would be pinned down by a searchlight. They hugged the tall wire fence that encircled the Sanctum. The top of it was fringed with sinister hooks that bared themselves in the artificial purple light.

They came to another stop and Garl turned the other two, rubbing his hand down his face. The signal: _masks on_.

Jilk opened her bag and poked gingerly around the explosive canisters, coming upon three masks which she pulled out. They'd been raided from an old costume shop. They were plastic and garish, sporting the sort of exaggerated expressions that would terrify small children. They depicted ancient Gallifreyan gods, now little more than figures of fun for holidays.

Once their masks were fitted, Garl went to work on the fence. A rusty set of pliers cut a neat gap through the wire. As he worked, Hasra and Jilk peered intently through the gaps. There were security cameras all over the compound, perched on top of tall poles. The cameras would swivel back and forth in a cycle. There was some pattern here, but with only a day to plan their expedition, there hadn't been time to figure it out.

With the hole cut, they pushed through and raced across the gravel. There was no going back now. If they were caught, they'd be shot on sight. If they were lucky.

_SSSSSSKKRIIIIIIIIIISSSSHHH!_

Hasra's boot slipped! Her leg veered at a wrong angle. She stumbled and planted a hand on the ground. Jilk swerved to miss her. She darted around and kept going without looking back.

Hasra raced after her, her face burning at her blunder. They couldn't afford any mistakes now. Garl had been very clear: if anything went wrong, there would be no heroes. Everyone for themselves. It was a harsh tactic, but again, none of them had much experience.

The Sanctum was an enormous dome, ringed with buttresses, giving it the appearance of a huge spider. The front doors were a quarter of the way around the perimeter from where they were. Keeping their bodies slung low, they skirted the wall with Hasra now bringing up the rear, buttress shadows wiping across them.

To Garl, the whole thing felt like a dream. At any moment he could die. The thought was so vast, so ultimate, he couldn't take it in. All he was thinking was: _Run, quiet, run, quiet_. He almost forgot what they were even doing here. He was so bound up in the moment, he nearly ran straight into the guard.

The white cloak! The red helmet! Facing away from him. Garl skidded to a halt. He threw himself behind a buttress. He felt Jilk's warmth at his back as she did the same.

The blood thrummed in his head as he reached into his jacket pocket. It pulled out a staser. Primed. It was horribly slippery in his sweat-soaked palm. Inch-by-inch he poked his head out from behind the buttress. The guard still hadn't turned around. From this angle, Garl couldn't tell if he was alone, or if there was another positioned just on the other side of the door. Did it matter?

He could take both of them. Hasra was armed as well. They had the element of surprise.

As he prepared to fire, he remembered there'd been a time when the thought of shooting someone in the back would have disgusted him.

No!

There was no time for that. These people were the enemy. They would kill the three of them given the smallest chance. They were doing this for their freedom. For their rights.

Before he could change his mind, he extended his arm and fired.

There was a flash and the back of the man's head exploded in a scarlet puff. His whole body jerked like he'd been electrocuted. A wheeze escaped his throat, a sound that would never leave Garl. Then his body collapsed, his cloak falling over him like a death shroud.

Garl waited for a moment. When no guards came, they crept forward, seized the corpse and dragged it behind the buttress with them. Feverishly, they stripped him of his uniform which Garl put on. The masks and Hasra's staser were returned to the bag. The plan was for her and Jilk to look like prisoners being escorted to the Accelerator. Neither Jilk or Hasra were happy about giving up their masks, but they knew the alternative would look too odd to convince.

Garl picked up the man's gun. He was so surprised at its weight that he nearly dropped it. He never would have thought he'd one day be dressed as a Chancellery Guard, even if it was just a ruse.

Jilk and Hasra sat the still-warm corpse against the wall of the dome. Hasra stared at the man's face, which was frozen in surprise. Without thinking, she spat on it with such force, his head jerked. She grinned at this, then caught Jilk looking at her and bristled.

'What are _you_ looking at?!' she snarled and Jilk jumped.

'Enough of that!' Garl hissed, clamping the gun with his chest like he'd seen the guards do. 'Come on, let's go.'

The women nodded and stepped out away from the wall with their hands up. Garl snatched up the bag, then realised he couldn't carry it and the gun at the same time. He swayed on his feet as he tried to keep his balance, then put the gun down so he could sling the bag over his shoulder.

Now looking more the part, he marched the two women in through the doors with the guard's staser pointed at their backs. They all kept their faces down, even Garl, so the cameras wouldn't recognise him. The Sanctum was practically deserted. They only met one guard who was strolling up the passage. He gave them a cursory glance as he passed them.

'Where'd you find these two?' he asked blandly.

'Uh, hanging around the perimeter,' Garl responded gruffly. 'Looked like they were going to cut their way in.'

'Their kit in there?' He nodded at the bag. Garl nodded jerkily.

'Right,' the guard replied absently as he walked past. It seemed random executions were routine around here nowadays. The thought sickened Garl. The fear at being caught was being eclipsed by a desire to see this place burnt to the ground. Invigorated by that thought, he continued on with new confidence, following the path Palash had communicated to him.

Far below them, the Master was being eviscerated by the Accelerator. He could feel his bones crumbling to dust, his skin shrivelling at lightning speed. He tried to scream in pain but his withering vocal chords could only emit a tremulous gasp. His knees swayed and he windmilled his arms ridiculously to keep his balance. He would _not_ be brought to his knees by these imbeciles.

The drumming in his head was now unbearable. It slammed against his cranium, shattering his eardrums. He could no longer make out the rhythm. It was just one long, continuous drone. His eyes watered at the agony. His limbs seized up and he couldn't stop himself toppling. One arm flopped in front of his face and he saw how ravaged he had become. It was little more than bone with a fragile wrapping of skin.

Above all else, he fought his body's impulse to regenerate. He knew once that started to happen, it would be all over. His regeneration cycle was like a jumper with a loose thread. The Accelerator was trying to pull at the thread and unravel him into nothing. If his body began to regenerate, it wouldn't be able to stop itself as the Accelerator continued to suck the life from him. Everytime his body changed it would be destroyed, then reincarnated, then destroyed again until there was nothing left. He fought to contain the destructive effect of the machine, while at the same time stopping it from going far enough to trigger a transformation. It was a grim mental battle, but he'd fought like this before and won.

His face pressed itself into the cold stone floor. There was a rattling in his mouth and he realised he was shedding teeth. His back arched as his muscles and ligaments began to shred themselves. He kept pressing his face into the floor. He wanted to shut out everything that was happening, particularly the staring faces beyond the glass.

Outside, Palash felt her stomach turn as she watched him die. To think a civilisation as advanced as this could retain such a barbaric practice. She glanced to Karvik and noted the slight arch in one eyebrow. He, it seemed, was as amazed as any of them at the condemned's tenacity. No one before had survived as long as this. He should have rotted away to compost by now.

They were all so transfixed by the grotesque sight, none of them noticed the doors behind them creak open.

The Master writhed on the floor as the Accelerator neared its coup de grâce. He could no longer scream. The air had been wiped from his lungs. He felt a warm slither of saliva drip down his paralysed chin. Despite the pain, he still had some semblance of consciousness. He shrivelled inwardly at the indignity of it all.

After everything he had been through, all the struggles to stay alive, he was being tortured out of existence like some petty criminal. How dare they! Did they have no idea who he was? He, who had nearly destroyed all of Gallifrey when he was a rotting husk? He, who had watched their President die like the snivelling child he was?

The drums had stopped now. His eardrums had been smashed. Now there was only silence. Silence and his rage at the injustice he was facing. He blazed with anger. Anger it seemed would escort him to the grave. He didn't mind. Anger had been a good friend to him. Rage and wrath and fury. They had fuelled his conquest and nourished him in times of weakness. He was through with tears and complaints. Such things were for petty savages. Anger was different. Anger was strength, even at his moment of ultimate defeat.

His vision was swimming, but he tried to zero in on the councillors' expressions. He could just about make out their shock at his ordeal. They were probably wondering how he could still be holding on. The fools. How could they not see that he was no ordinary criminal. They couldn't comprehend whose presence they were in. To think they could have spared his life and in return he would have taken control of them and led Gallifrey into a glorious new age. But that age would never come, all because of their blindness and fear.

With his last vestige of strength, his wizened lips pulled into a smile as he braced himself for the end.

_BOOM!_

The councillors wheeled around in shock as a section of the wall suddenly exploded!

_BOOM!_

Another bang showered them with dust and ash. A guard faced the door and began wildly blasting his gun. There was another explosion at his feet and he was catapulted backwards, striking the wall with a crunch.

Screams and howls filled the air as the councillors dived for the floor, throwing their cloaks over themselves in a feeble attempt at protection. Smoke billowed through the chamber, obscuring everything. Gunfire clattered through the air.

Suddenly there was an almighty shattering as the walls of the Accelerator collapsed, shards dancing across the floor. Everyone began scrabbling towards the doors. They'd sooner take their chances with some psychotic rebels than face the machine's effects. The Accelerator's hum turned to an ear-splitting shriek as its shield was breached. This became a splutter before spiralling away into nothing as the machine shut down.

Silence descended. The smoke slowly wafted out through the door and the room gradually began to clear. Karvik was the first on his feet. Whatever had just happened, order had to be reinstored as soon as possible. He dusted off his robes and let out a hacking cough.

'Guards!' he barked. 'Guards! Where are you?'

His eyes swept across the quivering mass of cloaks. Pale faces began to emerge and the horde began to whisper frantically. There didn't seem to be many injuries. The guard hit by the bomb was still lying face-down with no sign of movement. He'd have to be seen to quickly, though Karvik, or else replaced immediately. The assault, whatever had caused it, had to be countered instantly.

He now turned to the one thing everyone else seemed to have forgotten. He stepped over the trembling councillors like they weren't there and walked steadily across the room to the remnant of the Accelerator. He took one look into the chamber and pursed his thin lips. To everyone else's dismay, but unsurprisingly to him, the condemned at disappeared.


End file.
